


One Good Lie

by Goldy



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Dark, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-10
Updated: 2013-07-10
Packaged: 2017-12-18 07:31:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/877227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goldy/pseuds/Goldy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“What are you doing here?” he manages. “I left you.”</i><br/>She flinches, but she only says, “You told me once that you needed me—made you better, you said.” She snorts. “Guess I must have done a rubbish job.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Good Lie

The Doctor leaves Earth behind him and does what he does best.

He runs.

He travels three hundred years in the future and hangs back while humans land on a planet inhabited by an alien species for the first time. He goes back in time, watches the fall of the Berlin Wall, and then heads out again. He finds a small revolution on a moon in the Macca quadrant, eases his way into the rebel camp and gives them a few pointers before escaping back to the TARDIS.

The mantra repeats in his head: _don’t stay too long, don’t get too close, and don’t stop_.

He’s in the desert, on the poorer side of a newly terraformed outpost when he finally stops. He’s in a bar on the wrong side of town—the seat is sticky, the counter is dotted with peanut shells, and the floor is splattered with chewed pieces of gum. The air smells like old whiskey and smoke, but the bartender is _just_ the right shade of bottled blonde.

The thought hits him all at once, intense and ferocious and enough to bring him up short: _What would Rose say if she was here?_

The air tightens in his lungs, and he thinks about Donna and Pompeii and how it had _almost_ felt bearable when someone else carried the weight of their death with him.

The bartender’s lips move, but what he hears is, _“What good was it, then, blowing up Pompeii, if you were planning on turning around and breaking all the rules? What was it you said? That it was a fixed point in time—that that’s how you saw the universe all the time. And now suddenly you’ve ‘won?’ Rubbish.”_

“Anything,” he manages, to the right-bottle-shade-of-blonde bartender. “Give me anything you’ve got.”

The drink is too warm and too sharp, but he throws it back anyway. He rests his elbows on the countertop, and for the first time in weeks, he lets himself think. His eyes follow the swish of the bartender’s hair, her blonde locks touching her shoulders and the back of her neck.

Every time she turns, he feels a sharp pang of hope, only to find it dashed again in the next second. He hunches over in his seat as the drink pools warmly in his stomach.

Something like panic clutches at his throat. He can’t afford to stop and sit like this. It’s wrong, it’s all _wrong_ and he just needs to—

He senses more than sees someone slipping into the seat next to him. (He needs to go. _He needs to leave right now_ ). But then an eerily familiar voice says, “Place like this doesn’t exactly prioritize ‘health and safety,’ does it? Though it’s not like Shareen and I never went into some dodgy places back on the Estate. Still... I’m not sure I’d actually want to eat anything.”

His heart lodges in his throat and he almost pitches face first off the chair. He turns his head, trepidation curling inside him. He takes her in with wide eyes, blonde hair and blue jacket, fingers playing idly with the peanut shells on the counter. He swallows hard.

She’s not looking at him. Instead she plays with the peanut shells, biting down on her bottom lip like she’s trying to stop herself from crying.

He says the only thing that pops into his head, “You can’t be here.”

She breathes out sharply, her fingers stilling over the peanut shells. Finally, she inclines her head to look at him, eyes sharp and hurt like a stab to his heart. “Sorry for inconveniencing you.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “That’s it, I’ve gone mad. Oh, I’ve suspected it for a long time now, but this? This is truly the end. I’ve cracked.”

“I’d say you have a little, yeah,” Rose says. She looks away, soft confusion and hurt radiating off her in waves.

But Rose Tyler is gone—locked away in a parallel universe and far, _far_ away from him.

He squeezes his eyes shut, mentally recites the first twenty digit of pi and then opens them again. Rose is still there. His mouth opens slightly, and he shakes his head but she’s _still_ there, _still_ sitting next to him.

His voice cracks. “Rose?” He hasn’t said her name in so long—he’s barely even let himself _think_ it. It feels slightly awkward in his mouth, but somewhere inside of him hope tugs and flares to life.

Rose sucks in a sharp breath, and slowly shifts her gaze over to her. He studies her silently—drinks in her blonde hair curling at the tips, her short blue jacket, and warm eyes. All at once, the _longing_ hits him—that sharp yearning to touchherholdher that he suppressed a long time ago.

He remembers a kiss on a beach that should have been him and wonders if this is the universe’s way of punishing him.

“What are you doing here?” he manages. “I left you.”

She flinches, but she only says, “You told me once that you needed me—made you better, you said.” She snorts. “Guess I must have done a rubbish job.”

His eyes burn and he hunches over his drink again. “Don’t say that.”

“What am I supposed to think, Doctor?” she says, voice growing louder. “You’ve started talking like… like you’re in charge of the whole universe—”

“I am.”

She looks frustrated. “You’re not, though! You’re just… you’re one person.” She pauses. “The ‘little’ people? What, like me? And Donna? Is that how you really see us?”

“No!” he says, voice growing louder. His fingers curl around his drink and he turns his head to look at her. She stares back at him, face pinched and close to tears. “Not you,” he says firmly. “Never.”

“I was a shopgirl,” she says. “I was living on an Estate. But after travelling with you, I thought… I thought I was more than that.”

“You are.”

“Then why did you…?”

“I was listening to them _die_ ,” he hisses, voice sounding low and scary and not at all like himself. “And I had the power to change it. What was I supposed to do, Rose? Tell me honestly, _what was I supposed to do_?”

She meets his gaze, steady and focused. “I don’t know,” she finally admits.

“Yeah,” he says, staring back into his drink. “Neither do I.”

She’s quiet, but then he feels a soft hand on his arm. He doesn’t look at her. “Come on,” she says. “Let’s get you home.”

He glances over at the bar, but the right-shade-of-bottle-blonde bartender is nowhere in sight. “I feel… blimey, I’m dizzy.”

“You’re drunk.” Her breath wafts over his ear, warm and enticing. He shivers and wonders if she notices. “Stand up.”

He nods and then forces himself to his feet. Rose’s arm slips around his shoulders and she fits snuggly against his side. He closes his eyes, heart thumping wildly inside of him. He breathes in through pursed lips. “Rose,” he says. “Don’t leave. Not yet, at least.”

“I won’t.”

He thinks about her hand in his and _they keep trying to split us up, but they never ever will_ and cakes with edible ball bearings. “Good,” he says.

And then he blanks out.

****

He wakes up and something scratchy brushes against his face. He keeps his eyes closed, a small voice telling him that it might be best _not_ to see what sort of trouble he’s got himself into this time.

Then he smells her—sweat and shampoo and something uniquely Rose.

His eyes fly open and he finds himself on the TARDIS, in the console room.

Rose Tyler is crouched in front of him, one hand on his cheek, fingers smoothing at the lines on his face like she’s trying to wipe them away. He manages a wan smile and she replies in kind.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi,” he replies.

Then he pushes himself to sit up, legs coming to rest over the side of the pilot’s chair. He rests his head in his hands, moaning as a pounding headache slams into him.

“I thought Time Lords were immune to alcohol.”

“We are!” he says, a bit miffed. “Well, mostly. It’s not good to drink when you’re tired, Rose Tyler. Plus—and I say this with the outmost respect—I’m not entirely convinced that place was entirely on the up and up if you know what I mean.”

Rose snorts. “You were only out for a few minutes.” She grabs his hands and then pulls them down from his face. “You sound better, though. More… like yourself.”

“Mmm hmm,” he says noncommittally.

She’s still staring at him, though, teeth pulling at her bottom lip like she’s barely swallowing down a barrage of questions. So he slides his fingers through hers, curling their hands together.

They always communicated best that way anyway.

Rose’s gaze softens and it sparks something inside of him. He can feel his elevated heartbeat and the longing from earlier hits him in waves. He licks his lips, forcing himself to speak. “You never said,” he whispers. “What are you doing here?”

She looks up at him, seeming slightly dazed herself. Instead of answering, she curls one hand behind his head, fingers brushing the back of his ear. Then she presses her lips to his in a soft kiss, the hand on his head disappearing into his hair.

He reaches for her without thinking. His arms slide around her waist and she moves onto his lap, kissing him with more intensity. They stay like that for several long moments, snogging on the pilot’s chair. He’s distantly aware that he could spend a very, very long time kissing Rose Tyler, letting the rest of the world fade on by.

There’s a faint ringing in his ears when he finally pulls away and says, “You _can’t_ be here. I left you in a parallel world.” He lets the question about his other self go unasked. He doesn’t want to know—doesn’t want to think about another man who loves Rose in the same way he does.

Rose pulls back, looking flushed and well-kissed and a little bit like she’s still angry at him. She thinks for a moment and then says, “We’ll talk about that later, yeah? Right now…” She trails off, reaching for the buttons on his jacket with trembling fingers. Her gaze flicks to his and she musters up a small smile, making her intentions clear.

He swallows and wriggles slightly, making them both gasp.

“Rose—” he says, only it doesn’t come out like a protest at all, more of an encouragement. And it’s wrong, all _wrong_. She’s not supposed to be here. He sent her away so she could be safe and happy and loved, and not like this, here, with him.

She kisses him again, and his hands slide down her back, dipping under her shirt. She’s warm and soft, and everything that he’s wanted for _so long_.

He stops and tries again.”Rose, I’m not like… I’m not the person you remember.”

She breathes raggedly. “Shut up. I know you’re still in there. You can pretend like you don’t care anymore, but we both know that’s not true.”

Her fingers brush against the back of his neck and his eyes flutter shut. He senses her smile, and then her lips touch his forehead, just above his eyebrow.

He stops her before she can kiss him again. “You’ve got to _understand_ ,” he says, voice rising. “I can do anything, Rose. _Anything_. I could go back in time right now and stop you from falling into the Void.”

“You won’t, though.”

“I’ve thought about it.” He pauses. “I want to.”

“It’s not the same,” she protests. “Thinking’s one thing, but you’re not going to.”

“How do you know?”

“‘Cos I do.”

He feels a stab of irritation with her, and his next kiss isn’t quite as gentle. Hands tug inelegantly at clothing. She unzips her jacket and he helps push it off her shoulders before she turns her attention to his abandoned suit buttons. Her brow furrows in concentration, and all at once he feels something melt and sink inside of him.

He can’t bear to let her down. _‘Cos I do_. All that faith she has in him— _still_.

His fingers comb through her hair, and she hums in contentment against his mouth before leaning back and pulling her shirt up and over her head. He breathes in sharply, but Rose is kissing him again in the next moment. It’s like standing on the edge of a precipice and waiting to take the fall. He can sense Rose’s elevated pulse and he trembles slightly, wanting to touch her everywhere at once.

Suddenly she pulls away, flushed and half-naked in front of him. “Doctor?” she whispers.

“What?” he says hoarsely. “What’s wrong?”

She almost looks embarrassed. “It’s just that,” she says haltingly, “you’ve never said if you….”

“What?” he prods even though he knows exactly what she’s trying to ask.

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and then shrugs, “I’ve got to hear it.”

He closes his eyes. “Rose, I gave you up. I turned and I walked away, and I did it because it was _right_. What could be more obvious than that?”

She shifts on top of him and he stifles a moan. He opens his eyes and finds that she’s got close—her face peering into his. “If you said it,” she says softly.

Her fingers rub behind his ear and she stares at him, holding her breath, looking like she’s bracing for him to break her heart. He tweaks the ends of her hair and then glances around the console room. The TARDIS almost seems to fade around them—it’s recognizable, but blurry, and he can’t hear her soft reassuring hum in his head.

All at once, the reality of the situation hits him. Rose is on his lap, in the TARDIS, on some dusty back moon a million miles away from her home. _Impossible_.

The disappointment would be crushing if he wasn’t so well trained to expect it.

He turns back to her, his gaze softening as he meets her eyes. It’s a lie, but it’s a _good_ lie, and he hasn’t had nearly enough of those.

“I love you,” he says.

A shiver goes through her, and she finds his hand, holding on tightly. “I love you.”

They kiss again, and this time it feels different, more frantic and desperate. Rose rises above him, reaching to unhook her bra strap before sinking down on him again.

They don’t stop again.

****

He wakes up in a pile of hay. He’s in a dingily decorated room, curled up in the corner. Bright sunlight streams in through the windows, revealing dust and dirt in the corners. He’s lying half on his coat, one of his hands sprawled out in front of him, fingers curled into a fist like he was reaching for something.

For _someone_ , he mentally adds.

The door swings open, and the bartender from last night walks in. In the daylight, he can see that her hair is more brown than blonde. She’s closer to Donna’s age than Rose’s and has a dimple on her left cheek.

“Oh, good, you’re awake,” she says. “All right there, Mr…?”

“Smith,” he says immediately. “John Smith.” He stumbles to his feet, dragging his coat up with him. “You brought me here last night.”

She inclines her head. “You overdid it, Mr Smith.” She pauses. “That will be ten credits for the room.”

“Hmm,” he says mildly. “ _Or_ —” he sniffs the air, and then continues, “ah, hallucinogens. The air is saturated with them. What was it? Terraforming process went a little bit wrong?”

The bartender’s expression doesn’t change. “Very clever of you, Mr Smith. Well done. What gave it away?”

“Oh, now, that’s a bit private,” he mutters. He scratches his chin and then says, “I should have sensed it the moment I landed. That’s how you lure people in, isn’t it? Breathe in this air, have a drink—and you’ve got yourself a powerful drug. How long do people stay here, then? Lost in another world?”

“It’s their choice,” says the bartender. “Some people prefer the fantasy.”

“It’s not a _choice_ ,” he says. He’s beginning to shake. “You show people what they most want and can’t have and then you bleed them of everything they have. You take away every scrap of dignity, every last penny they have saved so they can continue to live in the fantasy.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Who’s Rose?”

He flinches. “That’s private. Leave her out of it.”

“You could have that again,” says the bartender. “Picture it, Mr Smith. Every night you could have—”

“Don’t,” he cuts off quietly. The rage feels hot and thick like it might jump right out of his skin. “You’ve made things bad enough for yourself.”

Her expression cools. “No chance of those ten credits, then?”

“Oh-ho, you’ve won yourself a lot more than ten credits.”

“We’re a back moon habitation, Mr Smith,” she says. “There’s no one out there who gives much of a damn about what we do.”

He shoves his hands in his coat and pulls it on, idly flicking away a scrap of hay. “There’s me. And I’m going to bring you down.” He smiles, suddenly feeling utterly calm. “Right here, right now. It ends.”

She looks unnerved for the first time. “Places like this, Mr Smith, they exist across the galaxy. And people always come. What gives you the right to decide if it’s wrong?”

His smile doesn’t slip. He moves to the door, searching inside his pockets for the sonic screwdriver and the TARDIS key. Both are still there. Good.

“You never should have given me that drink.”

“You came to us, Mr Smith,” she murmurs quietly.

He whirls around. “I didn’t ask for _that_!” he almost yells before shaking himself. No, yelling never accomplishes anything. He needs to do more than that. “It’s a mistake to show people what they can’t have. Makes them dangerous.”

“No, Mr Smith,” says the bartender steadily. “I reckon you were dangerous long before you ever came to this planet.” She pauses and then raises her eyebrows. “Is this what your Rose would have wanted? Ending us?”

“It doesn’t matter. She’s gone,” he says. “You had _no right_ to make me think that she....”

He trails off, staring at her in silence, his chest heaving. Finally, he spins around and stalks to the door. “Make sure I don’t run into you again.”

“I’ll make certain of that, Mr Smith. Don’t you worry.” 


End file.
